Polinka Goes on Holiday
Copyright© 2026 by Clee Hill
Chapter 14
“Dad?”
“Biscuit?”
“Dad, I know you’re awake, we’re talking, haha, so why aren’t you rolling over so I can see you to talk to you?”
“Ah.”
In an instant, she understood. “Got a stiffy?”
“Very.”
“Cool! Let me see,” she said, giving him neither time nor a choice as she slithered over him until she was lying over his side, his hard knob clearly in view. “Wow! I didn’t know it got that big.”
Stephen chuckled as he gently rolled over, Polinka rolling with him so she was snuggled up against his side, her eyes flicking down and up again with a will of their own. “It’s quite ‘normal’, I promise,” he said.
“Yeah, normal for you. For me it’s ... I mean, wow, Dad, it’s got the Snickers veins and everything.”
“The what veins?”
“That’s what some of the girls at school call them. The veins? Don’t you think they look like a Snickers bar?”
“No I don’t because I like Snickers, or I did until a few seconds ago.”
“Sorry, but it’s just language. You want me to call your knob ‘ripply’?” she giggled. “Ridged? Oh God, my Dad’s knob is... corrugated!” she decided, shaking with laughter.
Stephen sighed. “And here I was worried how you might react.”
“You’re safe, Dad. Not sure I am, though; it keeps twitching. How are you even making it do that? It’s like, haha, it’s like a meaty metronome,” she said, unable to keep the giggles away for more than a couple of moments.
“Well, I’ve heard them called a few things over the years, but ‘meaty metronome’? I love the inventiveness but I’m not so sure I’m okay with calling it that. And I’m not ‘doing’ anything; it’s mirroring my pulse.”
“Wow, so that’s how they take your blood pressure at the doctors,” she chuckled.
“As long as they don’t want to draw blood at the same time.”
“Eww, Dad. I’m here having fun with your knob, hahaha, and you go and make it weird. Shame, though,” she smiled, wickedly.
“Polinka? What are you cooking up?”
“Oh I was just thinking, shame you can’t have a quickie with me.”
Stephen winced. There was no way she was serious, but even so, she hadn’t realised how tender a topic that was, promising herself to be very careful if she ever joked about it again. “Go on, finish your thought. Please. Quickly.”
“Well, not that we’re going to because, you know, me gay, you Dad, that bad, haha, but if we did, at least then I’d know, if my girlfriend ever suggested pegging me, whether that’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ from the Shropshire Gal with her knees on her tiddies.”
Stephen shook his head. “Of all the potential consequences, that is the one you focused on?”
“Yep. I mean I’m on the Pill so there’s no worry about that, we love each other, so there’s no worry about that; it’s like I said, I’m too gay and too your daughter. Also too worried that how the hell do you cram that in? Does it concertina or something?” she giggled. “Anyway, now you know.”
“I do? What do I know?” Stephen asked, caught off guard that she hadn’t finished yet, Polinka putting it down to a lack of blood to the brain.
Snuggling up for a moment, she softly kissed him on the cheek before explaining. “Well, now you know that not only had I thought this might happen sometime, Mister Rager, and not only have your probably figured out I’d thought this through in advance of getting my tiddies out - though not quite ‘thought this through’ because I had not imagined anything like that, haha - but most important of all you now know ... I’m completely fine about it. My Dad’s got a twitchy stiffy and I’m not worried or panicked or shocked or anything. There is one thing though.”
“Do I need to ask?”
“Nope. It’s easy. It’s just ... let me go and pee first.”
“Why?”
“If we’re both getting our things to go out at the same time? In here? Where there’s not a lot of room? Dad, you could give someone a nasty poke in the eye with that,” she giggled, kissing him again for a moment before she bounced away, got her things, opened the van door, and left it open for Stephen to watch as she skipped and scampered away to her appointment with a bush, running for all the world as though terrorised by something chasing her.
“Dad, no,” Polinka said as they stood outside a little womenswear shop in Fermoy where they had driven up to after breakfast, spending the day relaxing, walking, and, as she had thought, window shopping. Which was why she had pointed to the scarfs they had on display in the window, one especially catching her eye, that being one with a very nautical theme to it of old ships from the Master and Commander period of time. Yes, that was a genuine time period; they made a film about it. She hadn’t thought anything of it when she agreed that yes, she could make something of them.
Which was when he suggested they go in and take a look.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been taking photos of boats, I’m sorry, masted ships, every chance you can get, and they have a scarf with masted ships on it. You see how a father can come to a certain conclusion, can’t you?” he smiled.
“I can see it, but I don’t agree with it. Dad, it’s too much. This holiday, the things we’ve bought already. I’m fine with the scarf I’ve got. I can go check the charity shops when we get back,” she said, her eyes betraying her as they looked, saw what looked like a scarf that would tie into a bandeau fit for a queen, and she knew she was going to lose the argument. The trick, now, was not to let him go too wild. It wasn’t the money, she knew enough about his job to know they were never short for money and the things he had bought her really were not that big in the grand scheme of things, but she felt the principle was important; treats should be special, not a fortnight long.
Stephen gently squeezed her hand. “Maybe something to hold onto for Christmas then?”
“Now you’re fighting dirty.”
“Father’s prerogative,” he winked as they headed inside, leaving not too much later with a small bag in Polinka’s other hand containing three scarves, including the one she had promised herself would be tomorrow’s bandeau, the others being bright, colourful, and in one case, of course being the scarf with a tasteful dark print design of old masted ships, no rigging, just the masts. Polinka preferred them that way, claiming they were more interesting to look at. Stephen had asked her not to look at the prices, and she hadn’t, worrying only a little until he told her there was change left over for dinner.
“So silk scarves now?” Polinka asked, trying to sound at least a little miffed at his ‘escalation’.
“I never said they were silk.”
“Nope. No need. You know silk feels different from satin or anything that isn’t silk, don’t you?”
“I do now,” he chuckled.
“So you know what’s next?”
“No.”
“Bathroom change.”
“Oh?”
“Silk on my tiddies? You think I can put that off?” she giggled. “Just have to tie it a little loosely or my nipples are going to be fizzing from all the soft caresses.”
Stephen chuckled. “Thank goodness you don’t have any silk underwear then.”
“Dad! You can’t say that. If this feels as good as I’m hoping, that stuff is on my next shopping list. Not for every day, just for special occasions.”
“Occasions such as?”
“Bringing a girl back to ‘unwrap’ me, haha. Oh! This will do fine. See you in a minute,” she said as she slipped inside the door of a public convenience. Inside it wasn’t too bad, plenty clean and bright, and so she stepped into one of the stalls, quickly removing the pink Gingham short sleeved blouse she had been wearing, tied up as a halter to show off as much of her tummy as she could. Folding it neatly into the little bag, she of course took out the naval scarf, at first planning on making it into a bandeau, but as soon as she felt the silk on her nipples she gave a shiver and a giggle. There was no way she could wear that tightly across her tiddies all day without ending up cross-eyed, so she instead did the thing Jeremy had taught her, a kind of a bandeau with two knots at the front, one just above her breastbone, one just below her tiddies, with the middle open to keep her cool, and the silk feeling amazing but not rubbing on her nipples with every breath. Checking herself in the mirror to make sure the opening was properly centred, she was back out again, finding Stephen lounging in the shade of a tree as he checked his phone.
“Hey, Dad. What do you think?”
“I think you are certain to turn some heads,” he smiled.
“Thanks. I think. And your head? You are okay with it?”
“I trust you.”
“Not the same, Dad.”
“As long as you are confident—”
“—I am.”
“Then that is good enough for me.”
Polinka giggled. “You know we’re talking like ‘girlies’?”
“We’re not, but you are.”
“You’ll keep those nasty ‘boys’ away from me, won’t you?” she asked, playing the damsel in distress for all she was worth.
“Even though they will outnumber me,” he said, taking her hand as they meandered off again in search of nothing more than their own modest recreation of the kind of fin de siècle style of flânerie which a lazy afternoon must surely call for.
Rather than the summits of Knockmealdown and Knockannanagh, they agreed to park up for the night at on the southern side of Dyrick, much more secluded, much less busy with tourists, and just as likely to put them at risk of close encounters of the first, second, and third kind, at least according to what Polinka quickly Googled once he told her their destination for the night.
“So another hotspot?”
“Dad, they’re all hotspots and don’t pretend like you don’t know and didn’t plan this whole thing,” she smiled as he eased them along a small ‘road’ at the bottom of which had been a sign promising a camping spot, or at least somewhere they could park for the night.
“I know, Biscuit, but I simply searched for places on a hotspot map; I didn’t really pay too much attention to what kind of hotspots they were.”
“No? Well this is a good one. Irregular ‘lights in the sky’ going back to when they thought Hitler was now trying to send V1s and V2s over to Ireland. Since then, some occasional scorch marks in fields that absolutely could not have been people having a sneaky little barbecue, haha, and just the one ‘abduction’ story that probably was not a guy passing out on his way home and blaming it on ‘little green men’. Oh. Can I say that, in Ireland, I mean?” she panicked.
“I’m sure you can. Context is everything, and a pretty smile helps the rest.”
“Wow, Dad. I might be a slut but I’m not a tart,” she giggled as they came to the end of the ‘road’, nothing more than a turning spot large enough for them to park.
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